


Airports Filled With Grace

by piecesofalice



Category: The Pretender
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-02
Updated: 2010-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-05 15:34:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piecesofalice/pseuds/piecesofalice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He liked it when she flew commercial.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Airports Filled With Grace

\---

_But she cries to the clicking of time  
Oh, time..._   
\- Jeff Buckley, "Grace"

\---

The last call comes across the airwaves, but she doesn't move. It sounds so familiar, her name, tinny against the glass of the airport, but it's not, because no-one ever calls her by her first name anymore.

  
Last call again, and finally, she gathers her carry-on and marches to the check-in gate.

  
"Welcome, Miss Parker," but she's not, and she can't imagine a time when she ever was.

  
\---

  
There's a girl walking up and down the aisle of her plane, a bottle of water in one hand and a fist made of the other. The tension radiates from her as she paces, like the proverbial rat in a cage, and Miss Parker can't help but feel pity that's masked by annoyance for this natural girl forced into an unnatural environment.

  
The girl only pauses to turn once she hits the end of the plane, the water in her hand not being drunk but simply being used as an excuse to hold anything, something, one thing - like if she has something viable and solid in her grasp, she doesn't have to think about the possibility of the plane's wings hitting a bird, or a wind pocket, or a terrorist in their midst, so she can get through the two hour flight and kiss the ground again.

  
Miss Parker had turned on her laptop before they turn the seatbelt signs, so she turns back to a mindless Centre spreadsheet and tries to tune out the tuneless footsteps of the girl roaming the aisles.

  
\---

  
They hit the ground running, the wheels leaving a skid of black behind them and an ear-piercing screech reverberating through the cabin.

  
Her teeth set on edge. The girl from before bursts into tears of relief in her seat, and Miss Parker can see the crescent moons on her palms from fingernails biting flesh from her seat.

  
For a moment, the engineered environment and the sound of sobs overwhelm her, disengaging when they taxi to a halt and the familiar _ding_ that signifies freedom sounds through the cabin like a gunshot.

  
Miss Parker unbuckles her seatbelt, and is out of the door the moment it opens.

  
\---

  
The glass of this airport is slightly hazy from a fog and some frost that sat heavily over the city not hours before. She's cold, walking towards the corporate lounge and her connecting flight with the normal bang-and-strut that comes with a body like hers, with a personality like hers, with the _don't-fuck-with-me_ clothes and accessories and grooming.

  
She catches her reflection and is happy, relieved to see the mask of structured self-preservation is still reflected there.

  
For a moment, she wondered if she'd left it on the plane, with the in-flight magazine and the complimentary earphones she didn't use.

  
\---

  
Her makeup is refreshed, herself relaxed-on-edge, when the drink arrives in front of her. She should have known, but she's gotten so used to the game that things that shouldn't, seem so routine.

  
"That girl, the one on the plane."

  
He's sitting on the leather chair before she gets her bearings, although she wouldn't be sure how to play these scenes without the dizzying sting of surprise ringing in her ears.

  
"Which one," like she doesn't know, because of course he was on her plane and under her nose and thumbing it the whole time.

  
"The pacer. Father died in a light plane crash. Completely afraid, but had to fly to get married."

  
"So she coped."

  
"She coped."

  
The vermouth tastes salty, and she wonders what he's put in the cup. The taste swells around in her mouth for a bit, until her taste buds pick it up.

  
"Asprin? And alcohol?"

  
He shrugs, drinking his probably-plain orange juice. "You looked headachy."

  
"You know me so well," she snaps, and his face sinks for a moment. The ability to care slips, and the glass tips against her mouth until she's drunk it dry. "Tell me again why the fuck you're following me?"

  
"You never fly commercial."

  
"And? The jet is having it's yearly service, or some bullshit, and I have work to do in the meantime."

  
"I like it when you fly commercial."

  
The corporate lounge sings of lost loves and tired business men missing their families, and the memories of two people who grew up trapped in a building, surrounded by glass and steel; of two kids who both paced up and down hallways in order to calm nervy thoughts and clung onto each other for lack of anything else solid, and tangible.

  
The call for her flight enters their silence, and stands, presses his face to hers and moves his nose along her cheek.

  
"I can see you better in crowds of people," he whispers and her eyes close because he smells like the grown-up version of her childhood and fresh citrus.

  
When she opens her eyes, he's gone but the smell lingers.

  
The last call comes across the airwaves, but she doesn't move.

\---

  
_Fin._

  
\---


End file.
